


Meanwhile, in a Parallel Universe

by pickles



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Non-Canonical Character Death, Parallel Universes, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Temporary Character Death, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-04-21 13:40:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14286138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickles/pseuds/pickles
Summary: After his best friend dies, Bucky gets a second chance at a life with Steve.





	1. Steve grieves

**Author's Note:**

> More tags will be added as needed! Chapter Five has a major character die (wow I wonder who!!!!!) but, as you can see from the tags, you could say it's *technically* temporary. Msg me if you need more detail!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Story begins after Bucky falls from the train in CA:TFA. _Steeb greebs_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for an offensive/homophobic word used. I haven’t included this in the main warning tags as I don’t feel it’s indicative of the story as a whole. It’s only this one word in this chapter and then is definitely not an issue for future chapters. Tags like torture, major character death are included because that’s either occurring across more than one chapter or because it is also referred to at a later point. If anyone would be bothered by this to the point of skipping that paragraph, it’s quite an important section (plot-wise) so please let me know and I can also put up the paragraph with the word substituted so that you don’t miss out

Bucky fell.

Steve fell apart, limp and useless. The only thought that crossed his mind on the way to the bar was the utter failure of it all. Zola apprehended, the train journey completed. And for what? He would never see Bucky again. Bucky had needed him and he’d reached out and Steve had let him fall  _ oh God- _

Agent Carter met his eye as he downed his fifth whiskey. He’d never been able to have alcohol what with the doctors already worrying enough about his body’s lack of fluids on a good day, never mind being dehydrated even further.  _ Useless. _ He’d gone in Stark’s fancy tube - so cutting-edge and  _ wouldn’t Bucky’ve just loved to have seen it, _ he’d even said so when Steve had described it to him. One of his efforts to calm Bucky down after his nightmares, an increasingly common occurrence since Azzano  _ oh God, Bucky. _ _ Oh, God. _

Steve had said a prayer with the Howlies after getting off the train, the snow underfoot pure white on the way to the small chapel. He’d thought about Bucky’s body, his strong boxer’s physique that he’d been so proud of -  _ I’m a middleweight now how d’ya like that huh Stevie doll? _ Crushed, in pieces at the bottom of a ravine, left behind and falling from the speeding train. He’d scrunched his eyes tight and prayed for the ascension of Bucky’s soul. It was a plain chapel, bare pews scattered with the occasional hymn book, nothing like daily mass at the ornate church of Saint Joseph’s College for the Men of Brooklyn. Steve had prayed, anyway, and scrunched his eyes shut harder.

"I think you’ve had enough, huh Steve?" That was Peggy, strong and solid and alive. God, it hurt to look at her, to think back on his gently sparking affection for her and how he had been drawn to it at first, before he was reunited with Bucky and the flame of his desire. Bucky had known it, in the end. It had been well before half a year prior to Bucky shipping out, in fact, that one of their habitual squabbles over Steve constantly getting into fights had escalated to the point where their necking was almost an afterthought. Despite the passion of that first kiss, it had only been followed with tentative back rubs and eventually settled into frequent but chaste pecks. It hadn’t been for lack of wanting, not at all, just that they had been friends going on about 20 years at that stage and were both unused to, and wary of, a sudden progression to a different plane of intimacy. They had also -  _ foolishly, so foolishly _ \- assumed that they had plenty of time to settle into this next stage of their relationship. They’d even been talking about moving overseas; French society was supposed to be real progressive compared to the insults and disdain leveled at the fairies turning tricks in small bar back-rooms. Bucky’s parents had become fast friends with an elderly couple across the hall from them who’d recently moved from France; the wife had started giving Bucky French lessons in exchange for him unpacking their furniture. 

Well, they were useless now. It hurt so much just to think that word with Bucky on his mind. Bucky had been many things - handsome, patient, curious - and just about the opposite of useless. Even overlooking the overwhelming care he’d brought into every aspect of Steve’s own existence, Bucky objectively had been about the best damn person in the world. 

Steve curled himself up tightly in his bedroll that night, pretending that the weight was Bucky’s embrace.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a really slow writer so sorry if the next chapter takes a while BUT I just wanted to post this and see what kind of concrit I get. thanks in advance!!!


	2. Bucky wakes up

There was the sound of a tap dripping somewhere. That was the second thing Bucky noticed. The first was how thirsty he was.

Then the pain hit as he fully woke up. The feeling of his entire body being crushed in a vice. The gritty taste of blood and gravel in his mouth. Nausea at the smell of burning flesh. The realization that it was him. It was his arm that had been crushed and ripped and sterilized with nothing more than a lighter. Who had been holding the lighter? He tried to picture their face but the memory was only of dancing flames and a hot heavy pain. 

~

He woke up again, this time to silence.  _ When had he fallen back asleep?  _ There was a man standing next to his bed but facing away, motionless. Something about him immediately inspired a sort of detached revulsion in Bucky. He couldn’t seem to recall anything about this man, except that he absolutely loathed him. The intensity of the emotion gave Bucky pause. Growing up with a best friend like Steve, he had instinctively formed friendships and grudges based on who Steve had decided to fight that particular week. The list was long. Despite Steve continuously getting his skinny behind beat up, he maintained that  _ there were just some things worth fightin’ for, Buck _ . 

Their love, their friendship. Things worth fighting for.

The scrape of a lighter brought with it a sudden sense of clarity. The sweet, warm presence of Steve fled him. He’d been captured. Taken by Hydra, again. And the blue Danube had taken his arm. The man leaning across him now was a Soviet soldier, saggy jowls and intent eyes. His breath smelled almost perfumed and was all the more disgusting for its saccharine sweetness. 

“Ah, you are awake. Good. Every time you sleep from the pain, we must start again.” His accent was thick but not to the point where Bucky couldn’t hear the man’s obvious amusement. Bucky himself couldn’t even muster up the necessary anger. He felt numb. They had drugged him - and were still doing so; he could see IV tubes threaded deep into him. They were… experimenting on him? The soldier was clearly a Soviet so maybe he had switched sides? Bucky rolled the idea around the fog in his brain and found that it probably made sense. Zola had seemed oddly fixated on him the first time, jabbing him with needles and taking samples and just generally watching him with interest. It was probably some sort of protocol that his cronies would be expected to continue his work. 

That is, if Zola himself wasn’t here. The fear of it was immediate and strong. Steve had been with him on the train, he remembered, and they had been fighting together. Then Bucky had fallen, Steve’s pale face fading from his sightlines until he smashed into the icy river. He had immediately passed out from the pain of his arm tearing from the rest of his body. God, it was hard to push down the impulse to check to see if his arm was really gone or if it was still there; it hurt like it was  _ still there _ . So, then, he could only hope that Steve had managed to get to Zola and take him into custody. If anyone was capable, it was Steve. Beautiful, stubborn Steve, who spat venom at bullies and had built up walls miles-thick around himself. Who consciously let himself be vulnerable around Bucky. Who snuffled a little on the inhale when he slept and always made the same clenching motion at Bucky’s shoulders when they kissed.

He knew it was too much to ask of his stubborn best friend, but he could only hope that Steve wasn’t blaming himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much to those that responded to the first chapter!! i know these are really short chapters but it seems to help me with story planning to do it this way


	3. Steve's plan

This was all Steve’s fault.

The rest of the Commandos had headed out on a short mission to gather intelligence. Steve hadn’t been invited. Actually, he’d been specifically told to stay at their base and  _ heal. _ As if the wound of Bucky’s death, of Steve’s incompetence, was just another cut to be fixed by the serum. Still, they’d had a point. Given the go-ahead to wallow, Steve had wallowed. He remained tucked into the warmth of his bedroll as the sun rose higher in the sky. He didn’t want to do this anymore. He didn’t want to spend a single day more like this, thinking about Bucky but knowing that he was gone. What he needed was a plan.   


That was how he ended up in his suit, alone, easing open a snow-covered side hatch and lowering himself into an echoey underground tunnel. Two weeks had passed, with the Commandos continuing to insist that he stay back or only relenting on the missions with lower stakes. They were concerned about him, they told him often, but Steve couldn’t think of a sentiment less suited to the situation. He was  _ fine. _ He had a plan. This location had been marked as a ‘possible Hydra site’ on their strategic maps but had been bumped down the list to accommodate for more definitive leads. It would most likely be an abandoned location, of which there was an increasing number now that Zola was in SSR custody. Still, in their haste to leave, Hydra had most likely left behind something of value that could be used to support the Allied troops.

Edging his back along the tunnel wall, Steve came to a set of four doors. The first was locked and looked to have remained that way for some time. The second led into a low-ceilinged room. File cabinets were crowded against one wall, while another was occupied by a low metal desk. The desk had been wiped clean recently, still bearing dried spots of cleaning fluid. The cabinets proved to be much more useful. They contained what seemed to be medical records and, for a wild minute, Steve was terrified that they were his. As he read further, he saw that, though they described an enhanced individual, it wasn’t him. Any comfort at that soon disappeared. There were blood tests, records of DNA extractions, outlines of experiments testing tolerance to electricity… to extreme cold… to sensory deprivation. Even a large section entitled Disciplinary Record with mentions of resistance and repeated attempts to escape. 

Chest aching and hands trembling, Steve tucked some of the papers into a concealed pocket. There was no time to waste. He hurried into the next room, which had a similar layout to the previous. This time, the files in the cabinets detailed official correspondence between high-ranking Hydra officers within the Soviet army and members of a scientific panel, which had been convened for some purpose. What the specific purpose was remained unclear, as each document only used the vaguest language to describe some sort of ‘innovative work’ occurring. Given what he discovered in the previous room, Steve could attempt a guess. He had known that Hydra was attempting to replicate his serum and to create their own enhanced army, but the proof was horrifying. From the sounds of the panel’s reports, too, the effects were already being seen; words like ‘success’ and ‘great promise’; orders to Italian officials to begin selecting subjects for experimental replicates in the outskirts of Rome.

The last room was unlocked but the door stuck slightly as Steve turned the handle. Throwing his weight against the door, eager to comb through more evidence, Steve’s brain took a second to process what he was seeing. There were no file cabinets like in the other rooms. This room was the size of two of the previous rooms, and Steve realized that a dividing wall had been pulled down to make space. Space for the massive oval desk around which at least twenty men sat. Behind each man stood one or two subordinates. There was also a group of around six armed guards leaning against the wall facing Steve, all casually chatting and smoking cigarettes. Or, at least, they had been. Now, all eyes - over fifty sets of eyes - were focused on him.  _ Shit. _


	4. This is torture

The closing of a door. Or the doors were already closed. Where was he? A metal cart. Light refracted through the fluorescent fluid of a humming machine. Right: the medical room he had recently, comparatively speaking, been moved to. Probably subterranean. Siberia. 

A prickling in his chest, an itching deep within. Was this a metaphor for something? The uncontrollable spasms of his right hand’s ring finger while, on his left, he felt nothing. Was  _ this _ a metaphor for something? And why hadn’t he noticed it before? He had been unconscious and immobile, was why.

_ Someone _ was moving around the room, though - he could smell their sweat and a shoe was lazily keeping up a rhythm against the tiled floor - but it wasn’t, apparently, him. Who could remember? He, definitely, had been finding it hard to remember anything. Any thoughts he did have came in windblown wisps which faded out almost as soon as they’d materialized. He was sure that if he could manage to move his head, if he could turn his head even slightly, that all the ephemeral insubstantial nothingness inside would collect underneath in a cotton ball cloud. Would  _pool,_ even, like so much blood. This was an effect of his torture, he recalled with a detached sort of satisfaction. Synesthesia. Elevated pulse. Hallucinations. Ruminations on blonde-haired blue-eyed spitfires with the heart of a lion and the wings of a dragon. The inability, once newly conscious, to recall how exactly he had ended up in this particular position… this particular location… and if he had decided on his next steps. In his mind, he rehearsed them now. Open eyes. Move head; move limbs; get up and escape. Because if there was one thing Bucky Barnes knew about himself it was that there was no way he would once again succumb to unconsc- 

  


The closing of a door. The shoe had stopped tapping but the sweat smell was stronger. No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t sweat, it was medicinal. That smell… the smell of the salve Bucky had once bought for Steve. Hushed words and loud gestures in a Chinatown alley with a man even smaller than Steve. His slacks pocket heavy with the bottle of tonic, but quiet with no coins to clink against it. Those tense two weeks, applying the balm to Steve’s ankles thrice daily, to the delicate lean of his tiny waist. Years later, one hand lightly placed on that same waist and the other resting against tensing deltoids, as he’d huddled against Steve’s Big New Body for warmth. Unbidden, his mind that night had conjured up visions of kissing all that soft new skin, even as his body had recoiled from the thought of being close… being vulnerable… _like a patient etherized upon a table_. A line straight from T.S. Eliot’s book of poems, painfully akin to Bucky’s own stream-of-consciousness as he’d considered Steve’s mortality, Steve’s beauty, the esteem in which he held Steve, his own comparative insufficiency and wretchedness. 

So, then. Steve, on the other hand, vulnerable. Well, that thought was just as infinitely amazing and desirable as it had ever been. Here, now, wherever and whenever he was, the smell of that salve and the phantom curve of Steve fired his synapses and electrified his skin. Electricity. A mouth open, gasping.  _Don’t stop._ Begging. He was begging. Floating and begging and desperate. No, he was chained. The saggy-jowled soldier stood over him and stoked fire and fear within his body, while he begged and the soldier smiled. _ Don’t. _ Teeth grinding as electricity jolted and stung.  _Stop._ Electrodes to the instep of his foot, the 

  


The closing of a door, again. 

“Soldier, you will tell me what I want to know now”. A whining noise, a scream. He had a feeling it was his own. “This has been educational but now we need your input. Can you once again smell?” The sizzle and burn of flesh, saliva flooding his mouth and stomach roiling. The sudden absence of all other sensation but that rotting smell, burning the insides of his nostrils, and then the discordant presence of words from far above. From blackness. “It is important to us to know your thoughts. What are your thoughts, Soldier, about a number… that is, the number seventeen?”  

A low whine, a hiss.  _Seventeen._ The burst of a firework and a deep crackle of laughter. Deep, but soft. And sweet. A sweet soft voice which lightly traced his eyebrow and stilled his fingers. Those sweet, soft eyes scrunched tight and squinting. Widening, as He read Bucky’s lips, mouthing the latest blue joke to Him across the subway car. _ Seventeen. _ The drumming of footsteps going up stairs, across a room, the  _ swish  _ and  _ click _ of a shoe executing a tight midair flex on the  _ five-six. _ The clink of glasses and the fortifying knowledge that he was the best: was the best dancer, had the best footwork and would be, he hoped, an impressive partner. A peacock, shaking out his plumage and hoping that he’d measure up. Spinning around a dance floor while his gaze wanted to remain fixed, mesmerized.  _ Seventeen. _ An arched eyebrow. The exchanging of syrup-slow smiles. The understanding that he was wrong, somehow, to have ever accepted that he was wrong. Cotton in his mouth; sparks up his spine; a thoughtful exhale and a snuffling inhale. A flame and a sizzle and pinch and still, always, a whine of longing. 

“Well, so you won’t talk.” 

How could he when his mouth was cotton clouds, blood, thoughts? When Steve and he were swaying slowly, clumsily, ultra-realistically, across the tiles? "Soldier?" And Steve was smiling, the thinness of His upper lip and straight smile gentled by the dip of the philtrum and the curve of the lower lip. 

“Soldier, are you listening? Fine. да, okay. We were going to save this till the end of the week, a little treat to boost morale, you know. But - bring him in.”

This last part was directed to someone out of Bucky’s eye line, presumably one of the sour-faced guards. _Sour, tart fresh yogurt, an attempt in vain to mask the nightmare-inducing sight of a glass of raw liver juice. Jesus, Buck, you tryna kill me - hissed between pained gulps, though Steve always managed a quick smile afterwards._

There was the rattle of metal and the slow drag of a body. _The slow, swooping feeling deep in his belly every time he caught a glimpse of that smile, the freckle on a lifted cheek. Bucky clenching his own jaw, hard, after they had first kissed, tamping down the impulse to yell and shout and proclaim to the world that this was real, even if it could only ever reside behind the locked doors of their apartment._

From the darkness of the lab's left-hand door, a huge, misshapen figure emerged. Frankenstein's Monster, lumbering, advancing. Crowding out Steve's presence and leaving Bucky alert, expectant, finger once again twitching. Upon closer inspection it became clear that it was actually _two_ people coming through the doorway; distorted from the fact that one of the figures was half-carrying the other. 

The man being carried was gaunt, hair clumped with dirt, cuts caked with dried blood and weeping. If Bucky had been pressed to guess, he’d have estimated the man to be about middle-aged, and definitely far from consciousness. It was a surprise, then, when he lifted his head as he entered the light, and Bucky choked. 

“Captain Rogers, didn’t I say you’d be meeting your friend?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [If you're interested in reading Eliot's Prufrock](http://poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/44212/the-love-song-of-j-alfred-prufrock)
> 
> *insert your own thoughts* but I imagined Bucky was trying to impress Steve by dancing the Collegiate Shag, which looks really involved to a klutz like me!
> 
> To anybody that cares - sorry for how incredibly delayed this has been! I think this was really hard to write because I've gotten used to how succinct things need to be in academic writing and was tempted to write "he was tortured end of chapter". I also moved overseas and lost my motivation but now it feels like it's back!! The wording is my own but some of the phrasing, especially at the beginning, comes from the novel City on Fire because it was a masterclass for me on how to turn a few thoughts into many MANY pages


End file.
